FISHERS AUTO MALL INC v. JOEL GARAY

Let’s cut straight to the wild part: a car dealership is suing a guy for more than the truck was worth after they took it back and sold it. That’s right—Joel Garay allegedly defaulted on a payment plan for a used Ford F-150, the dealership repossessed the truck, sold it to someone else, and now wants Joel to pay them nearly $24,000… even though the original price tag on the whole deal was just over $26,000. It’s like returning a sweater to Nordstrom and getting billed for the dry-cleaning, the hanger, and emotional distress.

So who are these people? On one side, we’ve got Fishers Auto Mall Inc.—a car dealership in Oklahoma County that, based on the name, probably has a big inflatable fish flapping in the wind outside like some kind of automotive carnival. They specialize in selling gently used trucks to people who need reliable transportation but maybe don’t have perfect credit—otherwise known as “the American car-buying experience.” On the other side is Joel Garay, an individual with, apparently, a dream of truck ownership and a credit score that said, “Sure, let’s take a chance.” The two parties entered into what’s called a retail installment contract—basically a fancy way of saying “you’ll pay us monthly until the truck is yours, but until then, it’s technically ours.” This particular contract was signed on February 25, 2025, for a 2017 Ford F-150, which, let’s be honest, is the minivan of pickup trucks—ubiquitous, dependable, and probably has enough coffee stains in the cupholders to qualify as an archaeological dig site.

Now, here’s how things went off the rails. Joel, according to the filing, stopped making payments. That’s the whole ballgame. When you sign one of these installment contracts and then ghost the payments, the dealership has the right to come grab the truck. And grab it they did. They repossessed the F-150—possibly with dramatic flair, possibly with a tow truck and a clipboard—then turned around and sold it to someone else. That’s standard procedure. The idea is: you default, they take the collateral, sell it, and use the money to pay down what you owe. But—and here’s the kicker—the sale didn’t cover the full amount Fishers Auto Mall says Joel still owed. After the auction dust settled, they claim there’s still a deficiency of $23,916.51 hanging out like an unpaid bar tab. Add in interest at a cool 12.9% per year (which racked up over nine months), and suddenly we’re talking about $26,341.99 in total damages. That’s not just a lot for a 2017 F-150—it’s more than the original loan amount. Which raises the question: was this truck being charged rent, or what?

Why are they in court? Because Fishers Auto Mall is alleging a classic breach of contract. In plain English: you signed a paper saying you’d pay us every month, you didn’t, so now we want the rest of the money we say you owe—even after we sold the truck. It’s not a criminal case. No one’s going to jail for failing to pay their truck note. But in civil court, this is how businesses try to recover losses. The legal mechanism here is straightforward: if you default, the lender can repossess, resell, and then sue you for the difference if the resale price doesn’t cover what you still owed—plus interest, fees, and sometimes attorney costs. Oklahoma law allows this, and the plaintiff is citing statutes about prejudgment interest and attorney fees to beef up their claim. But the optics? Oof. It feels like charging someone for the full price of a rental car after they returned it with a scratch, then you sold the car the next day for 90% of its value.

What does Fishers Auto Mall actually want? A judgment for $23,916.51 in principal, plus $2,324.48 in interest, plus court costs and attorney fees. All told, we’re flirting with $27,000. Is that a lot? For a used truck that likely had a market value of around $20,000 when new in 2017? Absolutely. Even if the original loan was $26,241, the fact that the deficiency is almost the entire value of the vehicle suggests one of two things: either Joel had barely made any payments before defaulting, or the truck sold for pennies on the dollar at auction. Or—and hear me out—maybe the contract included all sorts of add-ons: extended warranties, nitrogen-filled tires, “certified pre-owned” status, GPS tracking, paint sealant, and that mysterious $1,200 “document fee” that always shows up on car deals like a surprise guest at a birthday party. Those extras can balloon a loan fast, and when the car gets repossessed, the borrower still owes for all of it—even if the resale value doesn’t reflect those upgrades. (Spoiler: it doesn’t. No one pays extra for your half-used undercarriage rust protection.)

Now, let’s talk perspective. $26,000 is not chump change. That’s a down payment on a house in some parts of the country. That’s four years of Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, and every streaming service your dog could want. That’s a lot of gas. And yet, Fishers Auto Mall is acting like this is just business as usual. No attorney listed on the filing—meaning they might be suing pro se, which is legalese for “we’re handling this ourselves, no lawyer needed.” That’s unusual for a business claim of this size, but maybe they’ve got a form template and a grudge. Either way, it gives the whole thing a slightly Wild West vibe: “You broke the deal, we took the truck, sold it, and now you owe us more than the truck cost. Pay up or see you in court.”

Our take? The most absurd part isn’t even the amount—it’s the math. You loan someone $26,000, they default, you take back the asset, sell it, and then demand almost the full original loan amount anyway. It’s like a restaurant charging you full price for a steak you sent back because it was raw, then selling it to the next table and still expecting you to foot the bill. Sure, you might owe something—maybe the difference, maybe fees—but this feels like stacking the deck. And let’s not pretend this is about justice. This is about risk management, profit margins, and the fine print that says, “By signing here, you accept that we may charge you more than the value of the vehicle if things go south.”

Do we feel bad for Joel Garay? Maybe. We don’t know his side—maybe he drove the truck into a lake, maybe he skipped town with it for six months. But based on what’s in the filing, it sounds like a classic case of a high-interest auto loan spiraling out of control, the kind that traps working-class buyers in cycles of debt on vehicles that depreciate faster than a phone battery. And do we feel bad for Fishers Auto Mall? Not really. They got the truck back. They sold it. They’re still trying to collect 91% of the original loan. That’s not damage recovery—that’s damage maximization.

At the end of the day, this case is a microcosm of America’s used car economy: a world where paperwork outweighs possession, where interest rates can outpace inflation, and where the real product being sold isn’t the truck—it’s the illusion of ownership. So grab your popcorn, folks. This isn’t just about a Ford F-150. It’s about who really owns what in a country where your credit score is worth more than your word. And if you’re thinking of buying a used car on a payment plan? Maybe read the contract. Twice.